The Dark Place
by frostygossamer
Summary: In Victorian London, an emigre count, Uther, and his landlady, Hunith, listen to an innocent girl's bloodcurdling story. Gothic, Victorian AU, Arwen - NOW COMPLETE
1. The Innocent

Summary: In Victorian London, an emigre count, Uther, and his landlady listen to an innocent girl's bloodcurdling story. Gothic, Victorian AU, Arwen

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><p>AN: This is the first story I ever wrote down, and it's more than a decade old. I admit that it wasn't written as a fanfic but I've decided to barefacedly 'Merlin-ize' it and post it here. I genuinely think it benefits from the familiar 'faces' this brings to it. So here goes...

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><p>The Dark Place by frostygossamer<p>

Part 1: The Innocent

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><p>It was a darkly dreadful, stormy night. Lightning cracked the black winter sky and rain battered the windows of Count Uther de Camelot's rooms, situated on the edge of a fashionable borough of our own dear Queen Victoria's capital.<p>

Oblivious to all, the Count, a distinguished fellow with grey whiskers, elegantly attired in tawny velvet smoking jacket and ottoman cap, relaxed before a hearty fire. The firelight illuminated the warm sitting-room with a pleasing amber radiance, flickering on the crowded gilt furnishings rescued by his father from their palazzo in Venice just before the bailiffs arrived.

Uther was dozing in his armchair when he heard the sound of hurrying steps in the corridor outside and an agitated rap on his door. Too comfortable to move, he called out "Enter please, Madame Hunith." The door opened and his landlady, Mrs. Hunith, a tall, handsome widow, respectable in a bottle-green dress with a starched collar of fine white lace, entered the room.

Hunith led by the hand a young girl bedraggled by the rain, and barely visible under one of Hunith's best woollen blankets. The Count jumped up, bowed courteously to the ladies and lit a fine Venetian glass candelabrum with a spill from the fire. Then he drew two gilt chairs up to the hearth for his guests. They sat down.

It seemed that, in the middle of a rabbit stew, Hunith had heard the broken sound of weeping at her kitchen door, at the rear of the house. She had opened the door expecting to find some abandoned dog but had found instead this wet, woebegone thing on the step.

Indeed the girl was a sorry sight, in a sodden black coat and soggy navy-blue dress, no hat, no gloves and with the heel of one button-up boot broken. Between sobs, she had tried to relate an outlandish story which Hunith thought the Count should hear.

Uther asked his visitor her name, and she replied that she was christened Guinevere, although her mother called her Gwen. With Hunith's permission, Uther gave Gwen a drop of cognac, against the cold, and, returning to his armchair, asked her to begin her story.

Her dark ringlets were beginning to dry in the heat of the blaze. Uther realised that she was perhaps a little older than he had first thought; a young woman rather than a child. Tears again welled in her brown eyes as she sobbed that it was awful, too horrible to describe. She did not know where to start.

Uther leant forward and patted her shoulder encouragingly. Hunith suggested that she might start by telling how she came to London, as her accent was certainly not native to the city.

('o')

Gwen came from a northern town. She mentioned the name, but it meant nothing to Uther. His knowledge of English geography was limited to 'London' and 'elsewhere'. She was the second eldest of her widowed mother's seven children. They were a loving family, but very poor.

She described wistfully the giggles of barefoot brothers and sisters playing hop in the lane, the scarlet of geraniums on the windowsill, the delicious smell of leek and potato soup bubbling on the kitchen range.

One day they had a visit from a cousin of her mother's. It seemed she had found Gwen a position as a junior housemaid, in the fine townhouse in London where she had herself had been in service before her marriage. Taking tearful leave of her family Gwen had come down to the big city alone.

The townhouse was the London abode of His Lordship, who spent most of the year in the Scottish Highlands, shooting small birds and drinking the products of his own distillery. The moment Gwen saw the forbidding classical facade, she knew that she would never be happy in such a gloomy place.

The cold, black and white marble of the entrance was echoed in the chilly marble floor of the Servants' Hall. Heavy oak doors with burnished brass fittings, high ceilings, brilliant crystal chandeliers, crisp Irish linen, elegant bone china, sterling silver cutlery, were all things she has never seen before.

She found the monstrous butler and the sharp-nosed housekeeper intimidating. The work was hard and thankless, scrubbing floors, polishing brasses, lighting fires; rising early and going to bed late feeling tired, lonely and dejected.

Gwen's position was very lowly indeed and her home was a tiny garret, in the back of the house. This she shared with another girl, a Londoner called Morgana. The staff dubbed them 'Millie and Gillie'. Morgana was peevish but the nearest Gwen had to a friend. Gwen missed her family very much. Her only relief was the one afternoon off she was allowed every month.

It had happened on a Tuesday, eight weeks ago, when she had been in London almost eighteen months. It was her afternoon off, and she had been looking forward to it for ages, but when it came it brought with it a dense, unwholesome fog.

"A London Particulare", Uther interjected.

Hunith suppressed a smile at his pronunciation. It was little things of this sort that made him such amusing company.

Morgana had advised Gwen not to go out. A pea-souper was both unhealthy and dangerous. There were types out there who liked nothing better than a good, thick fog. It was the burglar and cut-throat's partner-in-crime.

If Gwen had not had an argument with her that very morning about the ownership of some stockings, then she might have paid heed to that advice. She went out and she never again returned to that house.

('o')

Gwen had intended only to walk for a few minutes, and return directly. The fog was thick and swirling. Soon she came to the first corner but, as she crossed the street, a hansomcab appeared from nowhere and barely missed her, twirling her around. She lost her bearings.

Remembering Morgana's words, she clutched her purse to her breast. Farther on she passed a female who, by her cheap but showy attire, was evidently a woman of the streets. Gwen debated whether she dare ask her for directions, but was put off by the approach of a 'gentleman'.

She found herself in a silent street. Her little shoes echoed on the cobbles. She tried to walk more softly. Someone might be listening. Suddenly raucous laughter from a gang of labourers rang out through the fog. Frightened she turned and ran back the way she had come, straight into a dark shape dressed in black. She looked up and saw his face.

Here Gwen was forced to stop for another sob and sip of cognac, unable to continue. Hunith put her arm around Gwen's shoulders and gave her a tiny squeeze.

"You're all right now, Sweetheart", she whispered, "It's all over."

Gwen gave a little wail. "All over", she sobbed, "All over."

As she seemed incapable of going on, Uther despatched Hunith, to the kitchen to make a pot of tea for them all, and to hang Gwen's rain-soaked coat by the range to dry.

"Oh, my rabbit stew", she declared, suddenly recollecting, and disappeared down the stairs in a flurry.

Gwen stared into the blazing fire for a while, in a silence hardly disturbed by the ticking of the Count's ormolu mantel clock. Then she began to speak again.

"I looked up and saw his face", she said.

He spoke. His voice was deep and dark, his diction perfect, not a London voice. Gwen noticed his blue eyes, piercing, penetrating, knowing.

He said, "You're lost, girl. Let me take you home", and grasped her wrist somewhat too firmly in his big strong hand.

He led her through the misty streets deeper into the fog. She was too weak to resist him. His stride was long and his tread purposeful; her small feet tripped over the cobbles. A black horse loomed out of the murk. He hailed the cabman, tossed him a coin and almost threw her inside.

She pressed herself against the door of the cab thinking to jump out and run, if she only could. Fog muffled the clang of the horse's hooves. She caught a glimpse of a knife in his pocket, but he still held her hand so tightly.

The hackney eventually drew to a stop outside a busy Chinese laundry; lights, clouds of steam, cheerful oriental voices, laughter, smiling faces. He lifted Gwen down from the cab. Then they plunged down a dark alley, past a hideaway where strange smoky vapours mixed with the dank night air - "An opium den", muttered Uther - and came to a place hidden behind what was itself hidden, a dark place.

TBC

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><p>AN: Hope you're liking it so far. Updating soon.


	2. The Stranger

Summary: In Victorian London, an emigre count, Uther, and his landlady listen to an innocent girl's bloodcurdling story.

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><p>The Dark Place by frostygossamer<p>

Part 2: The Stranger

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><p>There was a rattle of tea cups from the corridor outside. Uther got up to let Hunith in, and moved his ivory-inlaid card-table closer to the fire, to hold the tray. He whispered a precis of what she had missed into her ear, as she poured three cups of tea, and added several lumps of sugar.<p>

"Please go on dear", she said, handing the girl a cup, and taking the empty cognac glass from her hand, to set it down on the table.

"If you can", she encouraged.

Gwen sipped her piping hot tea and went on.

He released her hand and she was alone in complete blackness. He struck a match, and lit an oil-lamp that barely illuminated the centre of the room. More of a warehouse than a dwelling, it was heaped with boxes, coils of cable and nautical gear, and it was cold.

The lamp stood, with a wine bottle and a glass, on a small table. By the table was a single chair and a bed, neatly made. The lamplight flickered on his handsomely rugged, tanned face. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his blond beard and hair close-cropped. He was dressed like a sailor in pee-jacket, woollen jersey and dungaree trousers, all black.

He half smiled and indicated the chair. Gwen sat down.

"I still remember my manners", he said perching on the corner of the bed, "My folks were godly people, proper. They gave me a good pious upbringing."

He asked her name and she told him 'Guinevere', and that she was a housemaid and had to be back by eight o'clock. He promised he would take her home when the fog lifted, and he began to tell her about himself.

His name was Arthur Pendragon. He was a farmer's son, but he was born restless, a wanderer. As a boy he had drifted from home to the coast, and signed on with a sea-going trader, sailing the oceans of the world until he finally washed up in the Port of London. But, for all his travels, he had found peace neither on dry land nor high seas. It was a hard life, hard and lonely.

Arthur sighed and poured himself a glass of red wine. He asked her if she cared to take some with him but, before she could reply, he set down the bottle and brought the glass to her. Gwen had never drunk wine before, but she took it. He knelt beside her chair as she drank. She did not know that is was spiked with laudanum. It filled her heart with a warm glow and she was no longer afraid of him.

His sad story aroused her compassion. She told him that she knew so well how it felt to be alone amongst strangers. He took her little hand and pressed it to his lips. She pulled it free. He tried to kiss her cheek but she turned away. She stood up, dropping her glass flustered, and made a move for the door. In a heartbeat she was in his manly arms.

"Stay", he whispered and then he kissed her, impulsively, desperately.

She tried to struggle against his ardent embrace, but her resolve was just not strong enough. She was lost.

('o')

Uther leapt to his feet.

"Mascalzone!", he cried, "Gredin, scoundrel, despicable coward, contemptible betrayer, deceiver of women! If I could get my hands on him I should break his villainous neck, flog him, horsewhip him! I should..."

He became inarticulate in his fury. Hunith rose to restrain him.

"Please Count, control yourself. You're frightening the girl", she said.

Uther composed himself and returned to his chair, continuing to mumble angrily under his breath. Hunith sat down once again beside Guinevere and took her hand in hers.

"Can you go on?", she asked sympathetically.

When she awoke the next morning, Guinevere knew that she could never go back - at this Uther coughed and Hunith gave the girl's hand a squeeze - and since that night she had stayed with him.

Conditions in the docks were Spartan, but the Chinese laundrywomen were neighbourly, and Gwen was no stranger to hard times. Another woman might have fled, but she had nowhere else to go, nowhere but the river. And he was so much more welcoming than the cold, dark, swirling waters of the Thames.

Arthur frequented the two sailors' haunts, the Mermaid Tavern and the Seagull Inn. Here he made a living buying and selling contraband, smuggled into port by sailors. His contacts kept him abreast of the comings and goings on the wharves.

Guinevere suspected that he might be a wanted man. Constantly darkly brooding, he seemed to carry his own black cloud, a sinister burden that never left him and made him weary beyond her comforting. He could find no rest. He was a tormented soul.

He often stayed awake all night, and he frequently went without sleep for days at a time. He told Guinevere that he had never known restful sleep, even as a child. At sea, only when he was utterly exhausted could he sleep, like a dead man without dreams. Otherwise he stayed awake all night or resorted to laudanum. It was hard to go without sleep but it was worse to dream. His dreams were terrible.

In his nightmares, he knew that he had lived many thousands of lives. He had stalked as a tiger, sped as an antelope, soared as an eagle. He had been bear, fox and monkey; beggar, soldier and prince. He had suffered the sandstorms of Arabia, swum in the sacred rivers of India and stood at the red heart of Australia. Life after life; rich or poor; unlucky and desperate; he had always been an outcast, wanderer and fugitive.

Through all these lives, he had carried with him his age-old burden. It was something that had been left undone, something unfinished, that cast a shadow over his existence and blighted his life. And, worse still, there was another in that dream, someone else who shared that dreadful past, the 'Other' whose fate was inextricably bound up with his own. They had tangled before and they would again. There could be no escape.

('o')

The darkness took hold of Arthur in the evenings, so he always took Guinevere with him to the tavern as soon as the sun went down. The publican's hearth was warmer and more cheerful than his lodgings. She had never spent so much time in a public house, but soon the regulars had become comfortingly familiar, the old salts in the Seagull, the old 'ladies' in the Mermaid.

The old sailors were jolly, full of incredible stories of the sea, but they had roving hands when the drink was in them. The old girls were kind-hearted and they let her sleep on their customary settle by the fire.

One night at the Mermaid, Guinevere sat in her favourite spot while Arthur fetched two glasses of ale. An old acquaintance, Bible Will, drifted across looking thirsty. Arthur gave him the price of a drink and he came back a moment later, sitting down opposite them.

"He's here", he said.

"The Dutchman?", Arthur snapped, now animated.

"Aye", Bible Will replied, "He came off the Bonaventure this morning and he's been asking around. Taken lodgings at the Seagull. He's putting the word about; cash for news."

Arthur leapt up and dragged Guinevere out of the tavern. They returned to their lodging and he sank into a strange mood, a scowl disfiguring his even features.

After an hour or so he jumped up abruptly and began to gather her things, rolling them into a bundle, and told her that she had better go home. He cursed the night that he had betrayed an innocent girl out of desperate loneliness, and the fear of facing the inevitable alone. He was angry, at what she did not know.

Dismayed, she demanded to know if this stranger was the reason he was in hiding. Did he mean him harm. Had he wronged the man somehow. He laughed sardonically and said that he was not hiding from him; he was waiting for him. He insisted that it would be better if she was not around, but she refused to leave him.

She clung to his neck and said that she could not leave him. He relented and, tossing the empty laudanum bottle petulantly into a corner, he lay down on the bed resigned. She sat by his side quietly for a moment and then asked him again about the sinister newcomer. He sighed and related his story.

As he had already told her, he had been a seaman for many years and had voyaged all over the world. One evening he was in a tavern on the docks of a South African port. Here he fell into conversation with a wealthy winegrower from the hinterland, down at the port to trade his crop. His name was Merlin. They struck up an immediate friendship and played cards into the small hours.

At length Merlin laughingly asked Arthur if he would not need to get some sleep before the voyage out. Arthur told him that he never slept. The Boer said that he was the same, and when he did sleep his sleep was restless.

"Nightmares", Arthur groaned. "Yes, I have them too; dark and dreadful."

"Dark", repeated Merlin, "and haunted by a thousand grim memories."

They caught each other's eye, and in an instant they both knew that they were looking at their immortal foe, that terrible 'Other' of their dreams. Merlin sprang to his feet and backed out of the room, disappearing into the night. Arthur himself fled that unlucky place, like the Devil himself was after him.

TBC

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><p>AN: Hope you're liking it so far. Updating soon.


	3. The Dutchman

Summary: In Victorian London, an emigre count, Uther, and his landlady listen to an innocent girl's bloodcurdling story.

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><p>AN: Thanks for all the nice reviews. Lucy B, thanks to you too.

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><p>The Dark Place by frostygossamer<p>

Part 3: The Dutchman

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><p>Arthur had sailed early the next morning and jumped ship at the next port. Then he had made his way to England, and again jumped ship in London. Somehow he had known that here was the doleful place where he must turn and fight.<p>

He had been here ever since, several months, knowing that soon Merlin would come looking for him, knowing that they must meet again. This time nothing would keep them apart, no river, no valley, no mountain, no ocean. They were men and this was the 19th Century. There were no more barriers. It was time.

As they walked along the quay that evening, Arthur confided in Guinevere that what he feared for most, if he answered Merlin's challenge, was his reason. For as long as he could remember the darkness had eaten into his soul. He doubted that, even if he lived, there would be anything left of his sanity at the end of the battle.

It was a terrible thing to come face to face with your nightmares, especially when the nightmares were all you knew. Guinevere tried her best to console him. But what comfort could she give him?

The following morning, Arthur went off alone to clear his head. Guinevere found him later that day, sitting on a coil of rope on the quay, gazing out over the water, where seagulls wheeled and squabbled, a faraway look in his tragic eyes. He told her that he had run into Old Alice, a beggar, who told him the gossip was the Dutchman was waiting for him at the Seagull.

Merlin was spoiling for a fight but he wanted to do it right, like some sort of duel, for heaven's sake. Arthur had been trying to get his life in order ready for the day, even make his peace with God. He had been to the Sailors' Mission, but the preacher had given him no peace of mind. This was beyond the platitudes of the man's small experience.

When he went to the Mermaid to meet a man with some jewellery, Bible Will had avoided his eye and the Innkeeper had advised him to take the Bluebell, setting sail directly for the Caribbean. Arthur laughed humorlessly, but Guinevere begged him to sign on, to go, to get away while he still could. She would wait for him faithfully, and he could send for her later, just as long as he kept himself alive. If he stayed, if he was killed, it would break her heart.

Arthur hugged Guinevere and whispered that he was sorry, so sorry, that his destiny had caught up with him just as he had finally found a reason to live. Before they met darkness had shrouded his sun, and there were no stars in his night-sky, no Venus, no Lucifer.

He had lived without light, without hope and without love. He had been ready, but he cursed the fate that would force him to leave her so soon. He squeezed her little hand, kissed her cheek and, only to please her, walked with her down to the Bluebell's moorings.

Arthur approached the captain, but the old seafarer eyed him suspiciously. He said he has heard some whisper ashore, and he wanted no trouble on his ship. He would not take him on, so they went home. As they passed the opium den, the ancient chinee proprietor was standing in his doorway. "Wise man say cannot outrun own shadow", he observed meaningfully as he disappeared inside.

('o')

As Hunith cradled Guinevere against her shoulder, she realised the girl was trembling pitifully.

"I thought that taking to the road would be futile. But I didn't know then how it was to end", she stammered, "Oh, my God, the blood."

Hunith patted her head, rocking her gently. Poor Guinevere shakily continued her story.

In the morning, Arthur had an appointment with a fence in town. He wanted to get some cash for Guinevere, just in case, because today he meant to face his Nemesis.

Guinevere pretended to be asleep until he left. Arthur did not try to wake her. He respected the sleep of those who could. When he had gone, she dressed swiftly, putting on her blue bonnet and gloves, and hurried to the Seagull to see Merlin. She wanted to beg the Dutchman not to force Arthur to fight.

Merlin was eating a hearty breakfast when she entered the tavern. He was as tall a man as Arthur, but his hair was jet black and his face was pale. He wore plain, brown woollens but the fancy scarlet lining in the jacket, gold watch and expensive boots showed him to be a man of some wealth. A broad-brimmed hat and a cape lay on a chair by his side. Guinevere introduced herself to him, and he motioned her to a chair, insisting that she join him in his repast.

Merlin's manner was open and genial, but his eye had an evil glint. Guinevere told him that she feared for her Arthur, both for his life and for his sanity.

"He is a good man", she said, "at heart."

She pleaded with him to delay the confrontation until another time, even, she whispered, another lifetime.

Merlin winced. "Lady", he said, "This is the last lifetime that will be withered by that canker inside me."

When the vine was rotten, it had to be burnt out. If that meant death, then so be it. It was torture to live like this. Since the day he met Arthur Pendragon in that beerhouse he had known. He had tracked the man halfway around the world, and now he was ready. It was time.

Guinevere was undeterred. She said that she would do everything in her power to prevent the fight. She loved Arthur and she could not stand aside and see him destroyed. Merlin snarled and grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back.

"Very well, lady", he said, "Then I shall have to use less civilised methods."

He pulled her to her feet, and tossed a handful of shillings onto the table.

"Tell him I'll see him in the Dark Place", he growled to the assemblage and, picking up his hat and cloak, dragged Guinevere outside.

('o')

Outside, Merlin wrapped his big cloak around himself and his captive. He hailed a hackney-cab and barked "St. Geoffrey's." Guinevere struggled to free herself but she was completely overpowered by the big man.

Merlin chuckled, "It's a pretty place", he said, "I found it yesterday. Dark and silent as it should be. It wasn't hard to find. I'm sure Pendragon knows exactly where it is. Don't worry. He will come soon and then it will be finished."

Guinevere whimpered. "It has to be, lady", he said, "Now and forever. It has to end."

Tall, black clouds were beginning to form as they arrived at St. Geoffrey's. It was a small, dark and desolate church. On a better day it might have seemed tranquil, but today its dark shadows seemed full of foreboding. The stone floor rang hollowly under their footsteps and the chilly air smelt of damp and of mouldy prayer-books.

Merlin seated Gwen on the front pew and, retrieving the Holy Book from its lectern, began to read aloud - "The Lord is my shepherd..." - passage after passage in his strange Boer twang - "Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." - until the sun sank and the shadows crept across the aisle, filling up the chapel with the Dark.

Guinevere closed her dark eyes, and was beginning to slide into weary sleep, when suddenly there was a furious crash, as the doors were flung wide and Arthur Pendragon burst into the chamber. Behind him a fork of yellow lightning tore the air, throwing him into stark silhouette.

At that point, the listeners' rapt attention was broken by the sound of a key in the front door, followed by light footsteps in the downstairs hallway. The steps retreated towards the back of the house.

"Mr. Leon", Hunith noted with relief.

Mr. Leon, another of Hunith's tenants, was a young draper's assistant and inhabited a small back room on the floor below. She put her head out of Uther's door and there followed a whispered dialogue over the banisters.

The words "Rabbit stew", "Kitchen", "Please help yourself" and "Very busy" were all Uther could make out. When Hunith returned to her former place Guinevere continued in hushed tones, her walnut eyes wide with vivid memory.

Merlin, startled, grabbed Guinevere by the neck and backed up the altar steps, holding her between him and his enemy. He fumbled to light the altar candles with stubborn matches. Hunched shadows fled along the cold stone walls.

"Finally", he said.

TBC

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><p>AN: Hope you're liking it so far. Updating soon.


	4. The Duel

Summary: In Victorian London, an emigre count, Uther, and his landlady listen to an innocent girl's bloodcurdling story.

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><p>The Dark Place by frostygossamer<p>

Part 4: The Duel

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><p>Arthur told him to let the girl go. She had nothing to do with their business there. Merlin flung Guinevere aside, and she fell amongst the pews.<p>

The antagonists approached like boxers in the ring. Arthur's was the first blow, but it was returned with effect. Punches were evenly exchanged, but the two men struggled in vain to knock each other down. A streak of red blood ran down Merlin's cheek, from a cut above his eye, staining his shirt collar.

There was the glint of a knife, Arthur's knife, but it fell clattering on the flagstones. Then Arthur got his hands around Merlin's throat. The Dutchman tried to prise them off his neck. He staggered back choking, driven to his knees, unable to get a purchase on his adversary. Then, and with a grotesque cracking sound, another pair of arms ripped out from his sides. But they were not human arms; they carried fearsome claws.

The girl flung out her arms to demonstrate, and the Count and Hunith gasped with astonishment.

He pushed Arthur backwards onto the ground with a sickening thud, and his own back split top to bottom, as a ghastly, coal black thing pushed its way out of his flesh, like a snake sloughing off its skin.

It was huge and powerful, giantlike, with the hard, lustrous sheen of polished ebony, tinged with indigo and besmirched by clots of fresh gore. On its doublehorned head was a scarlet crest. There was blood and guts everywhere. Blood puddled the floor of the sanctuary, and oozed between the flagstones like rainwater.

The thing tore at the man pinioned beneath him, ripping flesh from bone until it revealed a black carapace like its own. Now they were two, wading in discarded flesh. The two hideous monsters slashed viciously at one another. Terrible unearthly shrieks filled the apse, gruesome shadows played on the walls. The air grew nauseating with the stench of decay, shell clashing against shell, mandible crunching against mandible.

The second creature rent one of Red Crest's limbs out of its body. Its screeching was horrifying. Piece by piece the two monsters clawed each other apart, but Red Crest was prevailing. It was stronger. It was more relentless. At last it crushed its opponent against the floor, smashed under its horrible weight. Then it proceeded to devour its victim, noisily. Blood, flesh and entrails littered the grisly scene. The battle was won.

Guinevere was still crouching out of sight behind a pew, numb. She had never been so afraid. An icy hand gripped her heart and she could scarcely breathe. Somehow she managed to crawl to a side door. She crept on all fours out into the dark, drenched churchyard, and huddled against a headstone, getting soaking wet, trying to regain her breath, and calm her racing heart. She had to get away.

('o')

Staggering along the street, Guinevere was overtaken by a hansom, occupied by a top-hatted bon-viveur. He stopped the cab and offered her a lift. She hesitated, stealing an anxious glance over her shoulder. Did she catch a glimpse of a flailing black hulk behind the churchyard wall? Was it just a tortured yew battered by the storm? She scrambled into the cab. Guinevere told her deliverer that she had to get to His Lordship's townhouse; she had friends there.

"So have I, by God", he brayed, "On, my good fellow!", and tapped on the roof of the cab with his cane.

The horse clattered off leaving that ominous place behind.

Guinevere wanted to look back at the evil spot where she had left her dead lover, or rather, where she had left for dead the monster that had once been the man she loved. But she felt sick at the memory of all that blood.

A tiny insect landed on the finger of her blue glove. She crushed it mercilessly. Then she tore off the gloves in disgust, tossing them onto the floor of the cab. What in the name of God had she allowed herself to love? A hideous creature? A monstrous thing? and yet she loved him so.

After a few minutes they passed a park, muddy and empty, some modest middle-class homes with curtains drawn, and then some bigger houses; their windows cheerfully illuminated. Then the fare tried to get too friendly. She freed herself from him, and shouted "Stop" to the driver.

The hansom cab drew to a sudden halt, and she dropped out into the street. As the cab bounced on, tipsy laughter echoing behind, a strong gust of stormy wind blew off her bonnet. Raindrops joined the tears cascading down her face.

She was at the rear of a street of redbrick houses. She staggered to the garden gate of the nearest. Stumbling in the darkness, she tripped over a manhole cover and broke the heel off her right shoe; the only pair of shoes she owned. Defeated she slumped against the back door, completely exhausted and without the strength to go on.

"And that is where I found you", Hunith observed, releasing the tension in the room.

She gave the girl a motherly hug, and Uther put more coal on the fire. Even in the warmth of the room, Guinevere trembled, as if from the cold. She wrang her hands.

"What shall I do?", she whispered fearfully, "My Arthur is surely dead, but the one I ran from, that one still lives!"

Hunith patted the poor girl's head, then rose, shivered and crossed to the window to draw Uther's long red velvet curtains against the night.

"That's better", she said.

But of course it was no better. If what the girl had told them was half true then it would never be better.

"When we've eaten, we can decide what to do", she said, in her most matter of fact voice, on her way to the door.

Uther was at her elbow. "I think we must send for the doctor, Signora Hunith", he whispered on the landing, "Cette pauvre fille..."

('o')

At that very moment, there was a loud knock at the front door. Hunith caught her breath. The solemn pounding continued. It reminded her of a story her grandmother had told her as a child, about the Angel of Death. Guinevere joined them and, in the gaslight of the passageway, Hunith noticed the raw, red circles around her anxious dark eyes.

Uther went slowly down the stairs, while the two women huddled together on the landing. The Count was gallant, Hunith thought, and in this so like her husband, the late and sorely missed Sgt. Balinor, who had perished bravely in Afghanistan. After a moment's hesitation, Uther unlocked the door, and opened it wide.

On the doorstep, there stood a tall figure enveloped in a long cape, his face obscured by a wide hat.

"Good day, friend", the visitor said in a low tone.

It was a colonial accent, Uther thought, but before he could close the door again the man had pushed inside.

"I'm looking for someone who might have come this way", he persisted, "A lady..."

At this, Guinevere screamed. and fainted into Hunith's arms.

TBC

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><p>AN: Shorter but eventful, I think. Hope you're liking it so far. Updating soon.


	5. The End

Summary: In Victorian London, an emigre count, Uther, and his landlady listen to an innocent girl's bloodcurdling story.

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><p>AN: Final chapter and epilogue. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favourited, alerted and just read it, including Lucy B, Ceerat and Lara Smith.

A/N: And, hey, I've just had an email from FF saying they've added Percival to their list of characters. I asked in May! Well better late than never.

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><p>The Dark Place by frostygossamer<p>

Part 5: The End

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><p>"Guinevere!", the visitor yelled, and he rushed up the stairs to her side.<p>

He scooped up her limp body, and Hunith ushered him into Uther's parlour, where he laid her on a chaise-longue, and knelt beside her, holding her tiny hand to his lips. Uther burst into the parlour.

"Minheer!", he challenged.

Hunith checked him, "I believe, Count, that this is Mr. Pendragon."

Arthur rubbed Guinevere's little hand.

"I guess she must have told you about me", he said.

"Something", Hunith conceded, "But she didn't tell us you weren't English."

Arthur laughed. "American, ma'am", he replied, "New England Quaker by upbringing, though I've had little recourse to the Almighty of late. I guess I never talked much about home. I don't have too many good memories." He paused, "Maybe you thought I was my good friend Merlin Emrys?"

Uther choked. "Veramente!", he retorted, "After what we have heard from your petite companion tonight, Monsieur Pendragon, I think we were not eager to meet either of you face to face!"

He told Arthur that Guinevere's disturbing story had caused Hunith and himself great anxiety about, to be blunt, her sanity. Of course her story was incredible, to say the least, but, even so, she had given it the ring of truth. The poor girl was obviously profoundly distressed by her experiences, real or not.

Arthur was deeply concerned. He had no way of knowing exactly what Guinevere had experienced, but he offered to try to explain the truth of what had happened from his point of view, and thereby show that Guinevere was indeed the innocent witness of strange but horribly real events. He stood up and removed his wet waterproofs, then he sat at Guinevere's feet and began his tale.

('o')

It had started earlier that same evening. A tempest was gathering in a mustard-coloured sky, when, at dusk, he had got back from the city, to find Guinevere gone. She had left him a note saying that she had gone to the Seagull to see Merlin, so he ran to the Seagull where the barmaid gave him Merlin's parting message. He knew where to find him.

Beneath threatening clouds, he hurried to St. Geoffrey's, arriving under a towering storm. There he found Merlin holding Guinevere hostage. The distress on her pretty face was enough to make his blood boil, if it had not already been boiling. He laid into the Dutchman savagely, but the man was ever his match. They traded blows. Blood and sweat blinded him. His head reeled with pain and fury.

Then, in an instant, reality slipped away, and with it the church and everything he knew. He was alone with his enemy in the unblinking glare of a pitiless sun. Thousands of years had vanished like mist. They threw themselves at each other like gamecocks.

It seemed that he knew nothing but the brittle crunch of bone against bone, the strain of muscle against muscle. They seemed to struggle for hours but ultimately his rival was stronger, more relentless. He began to overpower him. He felt his strength ebb away. Then he hit the hard, dry ground with a bang and he was finished.

He had once seen a slave emancipated after lifelong servitude. That old man's joy could not match the wonderful liberation he felt at that moment. Like a songbird released from its cage, like a river flowing out into the ocean, like the day newly dawning, so he felt as that ancient penance was lifted from his shoulders. He was newborn. He was free.

Arthur picked himself up from the floor and looked around him. Miraculously the church was still standing and it was utterly silent, except for the faintest sound of muffled weeping. Merlin sat on the steps of the altar, his face in his hands, sobbing quietly. Arthur went over and tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up.

"Thank God", he said, "Thank God. At last it's finished."

Then his face creased into a grin and his sobbing turned to laughter. He sprang to his feet.

"Thank God!", he shouted to the rafters and the echoes rang around the church. "Thank God! At last! It's finished!", he cried.

Arthur realised that they were alone. Where was Guinevere? He saw that the rain was pouring in through the open side-door of the chapel, ran to the door and stared out into the blinding rain. Behind him Merlin declared that he must come and celebrate with him.

"Let me buy you some beer, brother", he said jovially, slapping him on the back.

"She's gone", Arthur gasped.

He had to find Guinevere. He could not tell how long they had been absorbed in the fight, how long she had been gone, or what dreadful things she might have seen. She was probably terrified. He had to find her and explain, before he lost her forever.

Merlin caught his arm. "Here, take my hat and cloak", he insisted, pressing the bundle on him, "The weather is foul."

He said he hoped they would meet again. In better circumstances, they would have been friends.

"If there is ever anything at all I can do for you", he said, "I owe you so much."

He would be going home to his own sunny country on the very next available ship. He was already looking forward to seeing again his beautiful vineyard and the wife and family he had been blessed with but, until now, had been unable to enjoy. He wished Arthur a long and happy life, as he stepped out into the rain.

('o')

Arthur knew that Guinevere had no one else to turn to in London but Morgana and her fellow servants. He hailed a hackney-cab in the church lane, and asked for His Lordship's. On the way there, through the rain-drenched streets, he spotted Guinevere's hat stuck in a tree, and stopped the cab. As the hackney-cab retreated, he cast around for some clue as to where she might have gone. Then he heard the eerie creak of a garden gate swinging in the driving wind.

It was the end house of the row, and something was caught in a drain cover beside the gate. It was the heel of a woman's shoe. Arthur prised it free. It looked like Guinevere's. Putting it in his pocket, Arthur walked up the garden path.

As he approached the house the gas mantles in the kitchen were turned down and the room became dim. Peering into the window, he glimpsed the figure of a young man disappearing inside with a tray. The door closed behind him.

Cursing under his breath he vaulted over the side wall of the garden into the road and walked round to the front of the house. He spotted a light upstairs just as someone inside drew the curtains. He knocked on the door.

Arthur paused and at that moment Guinevere stirred, sighed and opened her brown eyes.

"Oh, Arthur, I thought...", she breathed, "My love, I thought you were dead."

She flung her arms around his neck, but then suddenly she recoiled from him, remembering her horror.

"What are you?", she asked, "A man or a monster?"

"A man", he replied, "A man who loves you!"

"I saw something in the church", she murmured, "something hideous, not a man, not even a beast. It was horrible." She began to panic. "Oh, dear God! It was black, so black, and devilish. Oh, dear God in heaven!"

Arthur grasped Guinevere by the shoulders, and stared into her face.

"Trust me", he said quietly. "It's gone, honey. The darkness is gone for good."

Guinevere saw the truth in his heaven-blue eyes. They embraced. It was going to be all right.

Arthur turned to Uther. "I came to think that the dark place in my soul was all I had. Without it there would be nothing. I was so very wrong."

Hunith felt the teapot. It was cold. She excused herself to make a fresh pot, pausing on the landing to fumble for her handkerchief, and wipe away a sentimental tear.

('o')

Arthur dried Guinevere's treacle-coloured eyes with his pocket handkerchief, and a tentative smile began to brighten her sweet face. Uther broke their reverie to enquire about the origin of Arthur's enduring quarrel with Merlin.

Arthur considered. "It was some sort of feud, I guess. Once, countless lives ago, we fought over the Dark Place and somehow that conflict remained unsettled."

"And what exactly was this 'Dark Place'", Uther persevered.

Arthur chuckled. "It was just a little patch of dappled sunlight, a bit of shelter from a baking sun on a scorching day, almost at the dawn of time, a tiny patch of weeds on a parched plain over which two primitive bugs, some kind of roach perhaps, once fought. Now I can appreciate just how ridiculous that sounds, but, until a few hours ago, it meant life and death to me."

"Beetles!", Uther repeated raising an eyebrow, "Les petits scarabees, mais bien sur!"

When Hunith came back with more tea, she asked Arthur and Guinevere what they intended to do next. Arthur said that he was thinking it might be a good idea to catch up with his friend Merlin at the Seagull. He might take them to South Africa with him. The man at least owed him a job at his vineyard. That was if Guinevere was willing to go. Guinevere said she was ready to go anywhere with him and would be all too glad to make a new start.

As they stood together by the open front door, they saw that the rain had stopped. Bright stars in the now cloudless sky twinkled in puddles of rainwater on the path. Arthur shook the Count's hand firmly and Guinevere kissed Hunith on the cheek. She said that she would write, both to her and to her own dear mother, before leaving England, and then often from her new home.

Uther and Hunith wished their visitors well. They watched them disappear down the road into the clear night, Guinevere's little dusky hand on Arthur's strong tanned arm. Then they went inside to address the rabbit stew.

('o')

A week later, Hunith was sitting in Count Uther's parlour exercising her needlecraft on his favourite brocade waistcoat, while the Count put the finishing touches to his story for the London Evening Post. The gas mantles were turned up, and the room was cosy. Uther put down his pen and turned to Hunith.

"And this is the envoi, the ... er ... epilogue, chere Madame Hunith", he said, "Con permisso I shall read it to you."

"Happily, It is not often that our lives are visited by such melodrama. Yet, as we sit comfortably by our firesides, we should remember that our world is a dark place, and there are stories in it that would curdle the blood of any ordinary man.

We should be mindful that, if our own circumstances are happy, we have cheated a fate that could so easily have brought us disaster. And we should thank Almighty God that, in the protection of our guardian angel, we survive to be contented and free in this noble country of ours."

Count Uther de Camelot smoothed his mustachios and winked at his lady companion. Hunith smiled. The Count was such a gentleman, she thought, so gallant.

The End

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><p>AN: Hope you liked it. Perhaps I'll do another Gothic one eventually. I have an idea...


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